The Private Journal of Violet Hunter
by anonsensicalgirl
Summary: A retelling of "The Copper Beeches" told from the perspective of Violet Hunter. Rating simply for the nature of Sherlock Holmes in general. *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

_As a writer, one method I've yet to master is that of the epistolary/journaling style. It lately occurred to me that re-writing a Sherlock Holmes mystery from the perspective of a client's journal just might be the practice I need…so_ voilá _! You can find the original story, "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches" in_ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, _which I'm fairly sure can be found for free on the internet somewhere, as it's public domain._

 _Of course, the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, loyal Dr. Watson, and intrepid Violet Hunter all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as any other secondary characters who may appear._

 ** _Chapter One_**

 _9 March, 1890_

It has now been two weeks since the Munroes have left for Nova Scotia; while I do not regret my decision to stay behind, I am growing increasingly worried about my lack of employment. I attended Sunday services alone again, which I still find strange. In the five years I worked for the family, I grew most attached to the children, and this morning I found myself glancing to the seat next to me to keep an eye on little Susan, as was my habit (she always would fidget) only to realize anew that she wasn't there.

I've been a frequent sight at the Westaway's agency over the past few weeks, but so far they have not been able to find a position for me. Perhaps I should have accompanied the Monroes to America.

 _10 March, 1890_

Nothing today. My finances are becoming strapped.

 _11 March, 1890_

I am not one to distress myself over trifles, but in all honesty the events of this afternoon are some of the strangest of my experience, and perhaps if I write them down before me I can make sense of them. If anything, I think it's only fair to at least mention that fact that I was offered a position, and turned it down.

When I went to inquire at Westaway's this afternoon, Miss Stoper was not alone in the office. No, indeed! The man before her was rather— _stout,_ to say it nicely, with a terrible double chin (triple, really) and glasses perched on the end of his nose. He jumped out of his chair when he saw me and immediately said, "That will do, I could not ask for anything better!" before proceeding to cry "capital!" a few times. Despite his unattractive appearance, he seemed so pleased I felt rather amused and inclined to like the man. He asked me if I was looking for a situation as a governess, and when I replied that I was, he proceeded to inquire about my previous salary with Colonel Munro. He seemed affronted on my part when I explained that I received four pounds a month from the Colonel for my services. I always thought it was quite adequate, but he went into raptures over my deportment and appeared to believe it a crime that I had been paid so little. Then he offered to pay me a hundred a year—and half of that in advance!

As I said before, I was inclined to like him, but something about his effusive praise and desire to hire me without questioning me about my actual qualifications made feel as though the entire encounter was rather…unnatural. With this unnamed wariness in mind, I asked him to tell me a bit more about the position. He then told me about his place in Hampshire, which sounded lovely, but then he described his son and I admit I was quite taken aback. "If you could see him, Miss Hunter! Killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack, smack, smack!" He said those smacks very enthusiastically, and I was startled. Even though I have no great love for insects, such a pastime for a six-year-old child, even a boy, is a bit disconcerting. But Mr. Rucastle (for that is the man's name) laughed so uproariously that I thought he was perhaps joking. Hoping to change the subject I inquired if my only duties would be to care for the single child.

"No, no, my dear lady," he quickly said. "Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?"

I replied that of course I wished to make myself useful. I did not think much of it, until Mr. Rucastle continued, "If you were asked to wear any dress we might give you, you would not object to our little whim, would you?"

I was much astonished, for even though he excused himself and his wife as being "faddy" people it was a most unusual request, but I said that I would comply. For a hundred a year, I daresay I very well could put up with most anything.

"Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?" he continued.

"Oh, no," I said.

"Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?"

I am not a particularly vain creature (my freckles are to blame for that) but to cut my hair—! I feel my hands touching my locks even now. My hair is beautiful, and unusual, even if the rest of my being is not. To sacrifice it in such an off-hand manner! Unthinkable! I told the man absolutely not. He was most disappointed, but I was firm, and he asked Miss Stoper to continue parading ladies through for his perusal.

Miss Stoper then asked if I wished to keep my name in the books. She was rather disagreeable about it. Indeed, a part of me feels as though I've been extremely foolish to refuse an honorable employment simply because of my vanity. But it's not just my vanity, at least I don't think so, for the entire situation made me uneasy. Such odd requests!

And I cannot quite forget his first phrase upon seeing me: "that will do," not "she will do." Was it but a slip of the tongue? Or—

But perhaps I am worrying too much about it. I have already refused the position, although I begin to believe I may have cause to regret it. A hundred a year! What have I done?

 _13 March, 1890_

Dear me, I should have taken that job. The bills that were awaiting me as I came home are mocking me from the table. Thinking the matter over, I think it quite possible that poor Mr. Rucastle's wife is mad, and he understandably wished to be delicate about it. I'm feeling most ashamed over my silly imaginings, and if it pleases a poor insane woman, I would not be completely averse to cutting my hair. There was an article lately in the paper touting the health benefits of short hair. Perhaps it would not have been so bad after all…

 _15 March, 1890_

What use is my hair to me, anyway? I think I shall go to the office on Monday, swallow my pride, and ask if the position is still available.

 _17 March, 1890_

The post today did not consist of simply bills. I shall enclose the unexpected letter:

 _DEAR MISS HUNTER_

 _Miss Stoper has kindly given me your address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We are willing to give thirty pounds a quarter, or ₤120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia) which would, I should think, fit you very well. Then as to sitting here or there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train._

 _Yours faithfully,_

 _JEPHRO RUCASTLE_

Well, dear journal, what do you make of that? My good sense is telling me that this is too good of an offer to let slip by me. Yet, that uneasy, nagging feeling of something being wrong won't leave me. If only I had a family to go to for advice!

I have been thinking the matter over. There is a detective that I have lately heard of through mutual acquaintances, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. While I do not wish him to investigate the matter beforehand, I do find that it would set my mind at rest to have at least someone know of this odd situation. I shall make no pretenses about my arrival; I am sure to a detective my problem seems quite petty and not worthy of notice. But perhaps its very sense of being both so completely common and yet so completely unusual will capture his interest. I have heard that it is the bizarre and unlikely cases, rather than the prestigious ones, which garner his attention. I can only hope that my problem is enough of the former for him to take note.

* * *

 _The second chapter should be up soon, in which we'll get Violet's impressions of Homes and Watson. I've tried to stay very true to the original story, which means most of this should be pretty familiar to all you Sherlockians-or Holmesians, as you call yourself across the pond. As I fully (and proudly;) admit to being an American, if any UK readers spot any unintentional Americanisms in here, I'd be much obliged if you could point them out, and I'll try to fix them. God Bless! ~_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

 _Thanks so much to The Patriette and bravehearttegan for their comments on the previous chapter!_

 _19 March 1890_

With such a freeing amount of time on my hands as I find myself riding the train to Hampshire, I shall take the time to write in detail about my experience yesterday with the rather unusual residents of Baker Street. I have heard some very interesting rumors about Mr. Holmes, who is known to be an eccentric, and even read the book his associate Dr. Watson published, titled A Study in Scarlet.* If my own experience is any indication, I have the distinct feeling that these two men may make their mark on the world yet.

And yet my first impression of Dr. Watson was the word average, or perhaps medium. Medium height, medium girth. His face is pleasant (although he does have a mustache) but I wouldn't have given him a second glance had we passed on the street. However, I wasn't in the room long before I realized that he is gifted with an entirely uncommon amount of kindness—and patience. He has a way of setting one at ease.

Mr. Holmes, by comparison, while polite, made me almost uneasy at first, although I tried to hide it. The man is tall anyway, but there is something in the leanness of his body that tricks one into thinking he is even taller than he actually is. His face is sharp and his grey-eyed gaze even more so, as if he knows all of one's secrets upon first glance.

I told both men my story. Dr. Watson seemed most interested, but Mr. Holmes leaned back with closed eyes, as if he was dozing. This rattled me for a moment, but I quickly collected myself and decided not to show it. I dislike being intimidated, even unintentionally, and there was really no use in feeling such a way.

I ended by reading Mr. Rucastle's letter aloud and telling them that I had made up my mind to accept it, but wished their advice before taking the final step.

Mr. Holmes smiled when I said this. "Well, Miss Hunter," he said, "if your mind is made up, that settles the question."

"But you would advise me to refuse?" I asked.

"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for."

This quieted me for a moment; his words could have been said in a condescending tone, but they were not. I asked him what he thought the meaning of it all was. He said he had no data with which to work, and asked me if I had formed any opinion myself. I told him of my theory involving Mrs. Rucastle's sanity.

When he replied that it was the most probable solution, I felt a wave of both relief and pride wash over me. As a woman, I have found that not many men seriously consider my opinions, and for Mr. Holmes to do so pleased me. That sensation abruptly ended when Mr. Holmes continued, "In any case, it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!" I wince when I remember saying those words, which make me sound so mercenary. But I am practically destitute, and heaven knows that there are not many options for a "young lady" to make a living. Working as a governess in a household with a probable lunatic is really not any worse than what many other women are forced to do to survive; truly, it is much better than many.

"That is what makes me uneasy," Mr. Holmes said. "The pay is good—too good."

I see his point all too well, and I admitted that the reason I came was to give him the particulars beforehand, just in case something—well, something were to happen. I would feel so much stronger if I knew he was at the back of me, and I told him so.

He nodded and said that I may carry that feeling away with me, and that if I was in doubt or danger a single telegram would bring him down to my help. I am so relieved. My anxiety is put to rest and I am quite determined to relax. I wrote at once to Mr. Rucastle, accepting his offer, and I am now speeding along to my destination, fingering, every so often, the short ends of my once-glorious hair, which I had cut off last night

 _21 March 1890_

Well, the house is terribly ugly. Not that Mr. Rucastle lied about its appearance, exactly- it is beautifully situated. But the house itself is a whitewashed block, streaked with dirt and damp. It is surrounded by woods on three sides, and the fourth side backs to a field. There is a clump of copper beeches in front of the hall door, which is the source of the place's name, "The Copper Beeches."

When I arrived yesterday, Mr. Rucastle was as amiable as he had been in Miss Stoper's office. However, when I was introduced to his wife and son, I could see that my conjecture about Mrs. Rucastle was incorrect. She is a pale, quiet woman, much younger than her husband. But I can see no signs that she is mad.

The son I already dislike. In the two days I have been here, I have found that he is always either throwing tantrums in a passion or sulking. I hope my first impression of him is false—perhaps he has been feeling unwell, or something is weighing on his mind—but I doubt it. Mr. Rucastle and his wife do not behave as if the child's conduct is unusual.

The day I arrived Mr. Rucastle also took me out into the yard to a small outbuilding by the kitchen. I heard the rattling of a chain, as if an animal were imprisoned there, and Mr. Rucastle seemed eager to show me its occupant.

"Isn't he a beauty?" he asked, and showed me a terrible mastiff, large and growling. "I call him mine," Mr. Rucastle continued, "but Toller is really the only one who can do anything with him. Lets him roam out every night." I immediately vowed never to be on the grounds after dark—not, I must say, that I really had any desire to do so anyway.

Mr. Toller and his wife are the only two servants about the place. Neither of them seem to be pleasant people, either, and I begin to wonder anew about what I have gotten myself into.

 _22 March 1890_

I caught Neddy Rucastle catching a bird today and tormenting the poor thing. I scolded him well for it, and he sulked the rest of the day, after slinking to his mother for comfort. Mrs. Rucastle seems devoted to her husband and son, yet there is a sadness about her as well. Mr. Rucastle treats her kindly, so I cannot imagine that it is her marriage that makes her so. Perhaps it is the disposition of her son? Mr. Rucastle had implied that his daughter left England due to her unreasonable dislike of her new stepmother: is this, too, a cause for Mrs. Rucastle's sorrow? Yet I cannot entirely blame Miss Rucastle, either. It must be difficult for one's father to marry a woman scarcely older than oneself.

But young Master Rucastle was not the only one whose behavior I found to be odd. Just after breakfast this morning, Mrs. Rucastle whispered something into her husband's ear. He looked at me and thanked me for cutting my hair, and then asked if I would go upstairs and wear the electric blue dress that had been set out. It was such an odd color of blue, and I could tell it had been worn before. It fit perfectly, however, and both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle went into raptures when they saw me in it—in a very exaggerated manner, I must say. They pulled out a chair for me, with its back to a center window and I sat in it. The next hour was truly pleasant, for Mr. Rucastle proceeded to tell one of the funniest stories I'd ever heard! I was laughing so hard I felt tears came to my eyes, and I forgot almost entirely about how peculiar the entire situation was. The only moments I did feel it was when I glanced at where Mrs. Rucastle was sitting; silent, as usual, without a smile and that sad, worn look in her eyes.

After an hour or so had passed, he stopped with his stories and comical impressions so that I could commence my duties. It put me in a pleasant, lively mood and I cheerily left to start my young charge's lessons.

That, of course, was when I found Neddy with the bird.

 _23 March, 1890_

I caught the servant, Mr. Toller, drunk today! And on a Sunday, of all things! Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it, but I am appalled. And for Mr. Toller to act in such a way in front of Neddy, too!

 _24 March, 1890 (8:45 am)_

I was struggling with another of my bouts of insomnia last night. But this, of course, is not unusual- nor the fault of my new employment. I simply wrapped myself in my shawl and wandered to my window to take in the view. The moon was full and beautiful, and I was admiring the way it shone on the lawn and the surrounding trees—until my musings were interrupted by the sight of an eerie shadow. My breath caught, for while I consider myself a sensible person, I am not immune to the haunting fancies darkness and moonlight bring. The shadow moved, and I realized the form was of that horrid, prowling beast. The one Mr. Rucastle calls a dog, although it must be at least as large as a calf. Shuddering yet unable to take my eyes away, I watched the animal as it lurked around the lawn. Finally, it disappeared around the corner of the house and I pulled myself to bed, even less inclined to sleep than before.

How very much the experience is like my entire stay here at The Copper Beeches—where I am at ease, even lulled into complacency by the surrounding beauty, only to be viciously jolted by a peculiar or grotesque appearance or situation. Almost, I think, as though the Rucastles are attempting so hard to make me believe that nothing is wrong that they show something is very much amiss.

 _24 March, 1890 (9:30 pm)_

Saturday's performance was repeated today. I changed my dress, sat by the window, and listened to a half an hour of Mr. Rucastle's entertaining stories. After he'd finished he handed me a yellow-backed novel and asked me to read aloud, after turning my chair so my shadow wouldn't fall on the page. He had me begin right at the heart of the chapter, and after I'd read only about ten minutes, he abruptly ordered me to stop and change my dress! This singular command I of course obeyed, but not without thinking over what all of this could possibly mean. As I was changing my clothes it occurred to me that, despite Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle's insistence that I sit by the window, they always made sure that I never turned my head in such a way to let me see out of it.

What is out that window? If I could find a way to look the next time…for I am quite sure there shall be a next time.

I also find myself pondering what Mr. Holmes would think of it all. I wonder if he even remembers his promise, or if I fled his mind the moment I left Baker Street…

 _25 March, 1890_

My charge has decided that he will not answer to anything but "Edward" now. He's taken to acting imperious for the time being, and my frustration has reached limits I didn't know I'd had. I'm still wondering if it's worth the grief to persist in calling him 'Neddy,' especially since my only real reason for insisting on the name is petty retribution. But I am an adult, and his teacher, and he really should treat me with some respect. I'm at my wit's end. And of course, the Rucastles are no help; his father just laughs over his exploits and his mother simply shakes her head sadly and looks at me as though I was the one causing her grief. I'd take the three rambunctious Munro children over that one little rapscallion any day. Oh, there is no doubt that the Munroes got into mischief, but it was honest, childish mischief, not intentional cruelty. This afternoon I found Neddy—I'll call him that in here, at least—slicing worms in the garden with a kitchen knife. He is a small child, with a strangely large head, but his slight stature does not incline him towards benevolence with those even more helpless than himself. His greatest delight seems to be in tormenting any small creature he can get his hands on. He's either pulling the tales of mice he has captured or stomping on insects.

Not that the influences of the household are suitable for a child. Mr. Toller is drinking again, and his wife is so stern-faced and intimidating that I try to avoid them both the best I can. The fact is, I am miserable here. The life of a governess is a lonely one, but it is something I thought I had grown accustomed to. Evidently not.

* * *

 _*Many have attempted to place the Holmes stories in chronological order; I have chosen to use the_ _particular timeline found on the Sherlock Peoria, which sets_ Copper Beeches _in the spring of 1890. It is obvious from the canon that Dr. Watson has published accounts of their adventures in-world;_ A Study in Scarlet _was published in 1887 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so I have chosen that year for Dr. Watson's publication in the context of the story._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 _26 March, 1890_

I broke my hand mirror this morning. Before I could throw the pieces away, it occurred to me that if I hid one of the slivers of the glass in my handkerchief, I could possible use it to see behind me…my plan came just in time, for this morning I was called into the drawing-room again. Feeling quite clever and clandestine, I lifted the mirror in the midst of my laughter at one of Mr. Rucastle's stories, looking as though I was wiping a tear from my eye. I confess to being disappointed—there was nothing behind me that I could see.

However, I was unwilling to give up, and a few minutes later when Mr. Rucastle's story again took a turn to the comical, I lifted the mirror and caught sight of a small, bearded man in a grey suit! Now the road by the house is an important one, and people are often seen on it. But this man was leaning against the fence, staring intently upon the house. I was both startled and excited at the sight, but when I put the mirror down I noticed Mrs. Rucastle's eyes upon me. I instantly knew she had somehow divined my purpose, although I am certain the mirror was hidden.

"Jephro," she said in her plaintive voice, "there is an impertinent fellow upon the road there who stares up at Miss Hunter."

"No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?" my employer asked.

"No, I know of no one in these parts," I answered. Indeed, friends are not a commodity I have a ready supply of.

"Dear me! How very impertinent!" Mrs. Rucastle said. There was something ill-natured in her voice, almost bordering on the petulant. "Kindly turn round and motion to him to go away," she requested of me.

"Surely it would be better to take no notice," I said.

"No, no, we should have him loitering here always," Mr. Rucastle told me. "Kindly turn round and wave him away like that."

I did, and immediately Mrs. Rucastle drew down the blind. As soon as she did so, Mr. Rucastle told me to begin Neddy's lessons, and I've been keeping watch of the boy all day. Who was that man? As I think back over the episode, what strikes me the most is the way Mrs. Rucastle looked at me: as if she wasn't displeased about the man's presence so much as the fact that I saw him there.

 _27 March, 1890_

Neddy is in bed with a cold, and I've spent the morning wandering about the house (avoiding the other residents the best I can) and I am now shut in my bedroom. There is one other aspect to my living here that intrigues me: the house itself.

Perhaps that was phrased incorrectly. It is not the house that I find fascinating, but rather its usage. As far as I can tell, the entire east wing in not used at all. Perhaps it is not so very odd, since it is a large house with few occupants, but the door leading to it is always locked. It seems that I cannot turn around without finding another mystery in this place.

 _28 March, 1890_

I am shaking. I had just put Neddy to bed and had come back into my room. It was still relatively early in the evening, but I had no desire to go back downstairs, so I decided to amuse myself by investigating my room. Not, of course, that I hadn't already, but there was one of my drawers that remained locked. I've been a little annoyed at this, since the other two drawers in the chest are not large enough for all of my belongings, but I suddenly remembered my bunch of keys that I had been given, and I wondered if one of them would open the drawer. The first key I tried clicked open the lock, and I eagerly opened it only to find a coil of my hair.

At least, I assumed it was my hair- but how could it have gotten in there? A moment's reflection told me that this was impossible, so I rushed to my trunk where I had stored my own hair away. It was still there. I set both specimens on the bed and examined them. How remarkably similar they were! If mine had not been tied with a purple ribbon, I wouldn't have known which was mine and which was not. They are both so alike in thickness and in color that if the hair did not come from my own head, then it must have been that of my twin. I am shocked and can think of no explanation. It must have something to do with Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle's fixation on the state of my hair, but what?

 _29 March, 1890_

Now that I am certain that something is amiss at this house, I am determined to investigate. This morning as I was coming up the stairs, I saw Mr. Rucastle walk out of the locked door that leads to the unused wing. His face was terribly red, and his veins stood out at his temples. His brow was crinkled in rage, and all I could think of was that I was very glad his wrath was not focused on me. I could see no trace of the jovial man who first hired me, and he hurried past me without acknowledging my presence.

I wandered about the grounds today with Neddy, taking special care to examine the outside of the mysterious wing. There are four windows, and while they are all dirty, only one of them is shut up. Before I could take a closer look, Mr. Rucastle himself appeared.

"Ah," he said. "You must not think me rude if I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters."

I assured him I was not offended, and then I gently mentioned my notice of the shut up windows. I was very careful to keep my voice full of nothing but casual, indifferent observation.

He looked surprised at my remark. "Photography is one of my hobbies," said he. "I have made up my dark room up there. But dear me! What an observant young lady we have come upon!" His tone was that of a jest, but his eyes were full of suspicion and annoyance.

I quickly attempted to put his fears at rest by pretending I hadn't seen his true feelings. I laughed. "I don't think I'm very observant, no." (I hope I lied; I like to think that I am very observant) "I would ask to see some of your photographs, but I am afraid I would be very dull and unappreciative. Photography is not something I am familiar with." I smiled apologetically.

"Well, there is no need for me to bore you with them," he said quickly.

This answered my question; I have seen nothing in my week here that suggests Mr. Rucastle dabbles in photography. I am positive that he agreed so quickly because he has no photographs to show me.

There is a secret about that wing, and I am going to discover it. I can't help but feel it is my duty to investigate. Whether Mr. Rucastle's actions turn out to be illegal or not, there is something wrong, and I may be the only one who can uncover it.

 _30 March, 1890_

Today has been quiet. Since seeing the man by the road, I have not been required to wear specific gowns nor sit in the drawing room.

 _31 March, 1890_

For the first time, I find myself thankful that Mr. Toller was inebriated today: he sloppily left the key in the lock of the door to the east wing. I took advantage of this immediately, hardly believing that my chance had come. All three Rucastles were downstairs, so I turned the key in the lock, and entered. The passage was unpapered and uncarpeted, and I wandered around a corner to find three doors, two of which were open. Both led into empty rooms. But the middle door—the locked one—nearly frightened me. The outside of it was fastened with one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring on the wall, and fastened at the other with a stout cord. This was the room with the only shuttered window.

As I stood there, wondering what on earth could be behind it, I heard a noise come from within and saw a shadow pass through the dim light that shone underneath the door. I have never felt such an insensible, needless terror: I ran. I rushed out of the hall, through the door- and right into Mr. Rucastle.

He smiled at me. It was terrible. "So, it was you, then," he said kindly. "I thought it must be when I saw the door open."

"Oh, I am so frightened!" I said, deciding to act like a typical, hysterical female. In this instance, it was not a difficult performance.

"My dear young lady," his voice—so soothing, so overwhelmingly coaxing—"what has frightened you, my dear young lady?" He quite overdid it in his tone, and I had no trust in his sympathy.

"I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing," I told him, still behaving in the manner of a frightened little girl. "But it was so lonely and eerie in that dim light that I was frightened and ran out again! Oh, it was so dreadfully still and stifling in there!"

"Only that?" he asked me with a keen glance.

Oh, no, I thought, but I kept going. "Why, what did you think?" I asked innocently, choking back (nonexistent) frightened tears.

"Why do you think that I lock this door?" he asked.

"I am sure I do not know."

"It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?" his voice was still kind and fatherly, but it made me uneasy.

"I am sure if I had known—" I began.

"Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that threshold again—" here his face abruptly changed, from that of a caring, benevolent gentlemen into the furious face of a demon—"I'll throw you to the mastiff!"

I had no need to pretend to be afraid; I was, most dreadfully. I don't even remember what I did exactly—I suppose I must have run for my room, which is why I am now shivering on my bed. But now I am angry, too. There is someone in there, in that wing. I cannot help but remember the way Mr. Rucastle looked at me when he found me. I was no threat to him before, but I know that if he now thinks I am now—to whatever he is doing—then I am not entirely safe.

For once, I am thankful for my irregular sleeping habits. Mr. Toller is still very drunk, and since he is the only one who can control the mastiff, I do not believe the beast has been let loose tonight. As soon as I am certain the rest of the house is asleep, I am slipping away and sending a wire to Mr. Holmes. I am out of my depth here, and need him "at the back of me."


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh, you guys are so nice! Thank you, O'Cahan and Jenny, for your comments on the last chapter! I dearly hope I'm doing these characters justice!_

 ** _Chapter Four_**

 _1 April, 1890_

I met Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson at The Black Swan this afternoon. Thankfully, it did not take me long to get the morning off from Mr. Rucastle (After all, in the entire two weeks I've been here I haven't had a day away from The Copper Beeches: he could hardly refuse my request for a few hours off) although I was careful not to allude in any way to my plans. I had engaged a sitting room for the three of us. I was ever watching the clock, as I had promised my employer to be back by three, before he and his wife leave for a visit to friends. (What kind of friends do these people have, I wonder? I certainly would not wish to meet them.)

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson arrived mere moments after I did. I was ecstatic upon seeing the two gentlemen; after such a wretched time surrounded by people I could not trust, their presence was more than welcome. I greeted them but didn't waste time with pleasantries before rushing into my story. I had brought along this journal, glancing at my entries every so often as to make sure that I had left nothing out. Both Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes listened keenly to everything I had to say, every once in a while either one asking me a question to clarify something.

After I told Mr. Holmes my story, he shot to his feet and began to pace; I realized that his seeming indifference upon our first meeting hid his energy and mind, and in those moments he had a clearer grasp on the mystery faster than I ever did.

"Is Toller still drunk?" he finally asked.

"Yes," I answered. "I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him."

He asked to confirm that the Rucastles were to be away that night, and then asked if the house had a cellar with a good strong lock.

"Yes, the wine cellar," I told him.

Mr. Holmes then said, "You seem to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you quite an exceptional woman."

(Did he say this to me to flatter me into complying, I wonder? He does not strike me a person who hands out compliments for compliments' sake.) I told him I would try.

Then he set to me his plan. He and the doctor will arrive at the house at seven. Mr. Toller shall hopefully be incapacitated still, and Mrs. Toller is our only obstacle—my job is to draw her to the cellar and then lock her in before they arrive. Such an act does infringe upon my ideas of morality and Christian ethics, but if it is useful in saving a life I suppose I have no choice.

The phrase, "to save a life" might seem over-dramatic, but as Mr. Holmes explained, I think not. He quickly surmised that I was chosen by my appearance to impersonate someone—most likely, Mr. Rucastle's daughter Alice, who all three of us highly doubt to be in America, but rather sequestered upstairs. ("It will do"—ah, his words are explained. My hair—my hair must be the same color as his daughter's. That is why he was so interested in my services) Evidently the poor girl had her hair cut, and that is why I had to sacrifice my own, and explains the hair in my drawer.

The man in the road is by the evidence either her friend or "young man" (possibly a fiancé?) and my laughing—and waving him away—was used by the Rucastles to convince him that his attentions were no longer wished, and that the object of his affection was perfectly happy. The dog, Mr. Holmes surmised, was to discourage the man from attempting communication with the house.

Oh, how stupid I felt when Mr. Holmes explained it all! Oh, I am glad that he is here; I don't wish to be ungrateful. But I do wish I could have been a bit more clever and put most of the pieces together myself. As I look through this journal it all seems so obvious. How could I have not seen…?

But my own complaints have no useful purpose, so I shall refrain from writing them here. What worries Mr. Holmes the most is the disposition of Neddy Rucastle. Neddy's tendency towards cruelty for its own sake does not bode well for that of his parents. According to Mr. Holmes, dispositions are often hereditary (I tend to agree, having worked with many children and their parents before)and he has no doubt that Mr. Rucastle is capable of brutality just as his son is. I think of my employer's face when he told me he was going to throw me to the mastiff, and I shiver. Just as Mr. Holmes's indifference was but a mask to hide his interest, Mr. Rucastle's joviality is a charade to cover his own ruthlessness. Of this I am certain.

It is just after six now. I do not wish to lock Mrs. Toller up too soon, in case she was to find a way out of the cellar before my reinforcements arrive (and also in a bit of kindness, I suppose. I would not like being locked in a cellar for hours) but I need to do it soon.

 _2 April 1890_

My plan to incarcerate Mrs. Toller was successful; my attempts to relieve her drunken, unconscious husband of his ring of keys was also done (despite the damage to my nerves…every time he grunted or moved I was certain his eyes were going to pop open and he was going to grab me…and to think my old English composition teacher accused me of having no imagination!) After this was accomplished, I waited on the doorstep. All nerves aside, I was so glad to see them that i was trying not to smile when the doctor and the detective arrived.

"Have you managed it?" Mr. Holmes asked me, just as thudding came from below the house, causing me to start a little. "That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar," I explained, although I am sure both men could have deduced as much. "Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. Rucastle's."

"You have done well indeed!" Mr. Holmes said enthusiastically. "Now lead the way!"

All three of us went up the stair and into the dim hall behind the locked door; Mr. Holmes cut the cord over the door and removed the bar. None of the keys, however, convinced the lock to turn. Even more ominous was the utter silence from inside the room. I felt unease wrap itself around my spine like a snake, and I shared a somber look with Dr. Watson.

"I think, perhaps, Miss Hunter, we should go in without you. Watson?" Mr. Holmes looked at the doctor. "Put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

I stood back as the men used their combined strength to knock down the door; as it was a shabby, rickety thing, it gave in at once. Despite Mr. Holmes's warning, I ran in the room with them.

It was empty. The skylight above was open, and I frowned.

"There has been some villainy here," Mr. Holmes said. "He must have guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and carried his victim off."

"But how?" Dr. Watson ask.

"We'll soon find out." Mr. Holmes swung himself through the skylight and onto the roof. "Ah, yes!" he cried, and both the doctor and I stood under the skylight, straining upward to hear him.

"There's the end of a long ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it."

But something still felt wrong to me, like a math equation solved incorrectly, or rather, one solved correctly through imperfect and unreliable means. "But it is impossible," I said. "The ladder was not there when the Rucastles left."

"He has come back and done it," Mr. Holmes said, swinging back through the skylight and landing on his feet. "I tell you he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be surprised if this were he whose step I hear upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

I took a step away from the door, feeling more ill and nauseous than frightened. Mr. Rucastle was upon us just as I did so. At the sight of him, I am ashamed to say I gave a small cry and landed myself against the wall—his face did look like a demon, I promise you—but Mr. Holmes rushed forward and confronted him. "You villain! Where's your daughter?"

It dawned on me that Mr. Holmes was angry. Until that moment I had assumed that his work came out of a fascination of the mind, of adventure. I do not doubt this is at least mostly true, but I now know that crime and cruelty also disgust him. But of course, my philosophical musings are not well placed; I return to my narrative.

Mr. Rucastle looked at the skylight. "It is for me to ask you that!" he shrieked (yes, a shriek, like that of an angry being of Celtic mythology) "You thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, I have! You are in my power! I'll serve you!" And then he clamored down the stairs.

"He's gone for the dog!" I gasped in sudden, horrific realization.

"I have my revolver," Dr. Watson quickly said.

"Better close the front door!" Mr. Holmes said and the three of us ran down the stair behind Rucastle. As we reached the hall we heard the baying of the mastiff, and then a scream of agony so wretched it made my knees weak with horror. The subsequent sounds were too horrible to describe.

Mr. Toller stumbled into the room. "Someone has loosed the dog!" he said, shaking. "It's not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it will be too late!"

The men ran to the yard, and I heard the sound of the doctor's gunshot a moment later. Gathering my courage, I took a deep breath and tentatively went outside. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes were attempting to disentangle Mr. Rucastle from the dog, and I stood aside as they managed to bring him into the house. My hand slipped over my mouth as they passed, as I saw the mangled form and face of the man who had hired me. He was still alive, however, and they laid him on the drawing-room sofa. Dr. Watson did what he could to help the undeserving man, and then the door opened and Mrs. Toller walked in. I gasped out her name when I saw her; I had completely forgotten her existence.

"Yes, Miss," she addressed me. "Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to you. Ah, Miss, it's a pity you didn't let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted."

"Ha!" Mr. Holmes exclaimed. "It's clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about the matter than anyone else."

"Yes, sir," she said, "and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

Oh, how I cringe when I think of how I misjudged her! She soon had enlightened us all with the whole story, how Alice Rucastle had been unhappy since her father's marriage, and how she had rights by her mother's will but let her father handle everything. Then Alice met Mr. Fowler—the man I had seen in the road. Mr. Rucastle knew that if Alice got married he would have no control over her fortune, as her husband was sure to meddle. He attempted to coerce Alice to sign a paper that would give him the rights to use her money even after she was married, but she refused. He worried her so about it that she got brain fever and was at death's door for weeks. She recovered, but was weak, and her hair had been cut off during the fever. But this made no difference to Mr. Fowler, and in Mrs. Toller's words, "he stuck to her as true as man could be."

We could surmise the rest of the story; it was Mr. Fowler who supplied Toller with drink to get him suitably drunk, and with a sympathetic Mrs. Toller managed to gain a ladder as soon as the Rucastles had gone. The two lovers have fled to I know not where. And, indeed, at this moment I cannot muster enough interest to care, for I am exhausted, emotionally and physically. Dr. Watson has taken me back to The Black Swan, the local doctor is with Mr. Rucastle, and Alice and her young man are safely off to be married. And my eyes are so heavy that I hope that my night will not be plagued with dreams of mastiffs and Rucastles so that I can sleep.

* * *

 _Yes, only two journal entries in this chapter. I'm almost done with the fifth and final chapter, though! I'm really excited for it, since it's what happens "after" the Conan Doyle story, so I have a lot more freedom._


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Five_**

 _3 April, 1890_

After a night spent at The Black Swan, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson and I took the train back to London. I hope to never see The Copper Beeches again…although now that I have left, I am once again without employment.

"Have you a place to stay?" Dr. Watson asked me as we sat in the train compartment.

I shook my head. "I'm sure I can find myself a hotel that will take me. I'm more worried about finding a situation." I tried not to sigh. I do not look forward to seeing Miss Stoper again.

The doctor frowned. "Do not trouble yourself about it, Miss Hunter. Both Holmes and I thought it would be likely that you would find yourself without employment after this…incident. I spoke to my wife before we left, and the both of us are willing to have you stay with us for a few days, just until you are settled."

I gasped, amazed at his offer to a homeless girl he barely knew. "Oh, Dr. Watson! That's not necessary…I don't wish to inconvenience you at all…" I ran out of things to say. It was so very kind and unexpected an offer that I just stared at him.

Dr. Watson smiled. "It would not be an inconvenience. My wife will be glad of the company, as I'm out so often."

I don't know why I accepted—maybe because I am so tired of being independent that I want to be taken care of, just for a day or two. My emotions are still in turmoil—if I hadn't meddled, if I hadn't done anything about the situation I found myself in—would Mr. Rucastle have escaped such a terrible injury? He is alive, but in terrible pain and his face will never be the same. Dr. Watson says it will be likely that he shall be bedridden for life. I cannot make myself feel true sorrow for it. the consequences for his actions fall on his own head. But his wounds were not necessary; if I had not arrived, Alice would still have escaped and…well, maybe Mr. Rucastle still would have set the dog out. I do not know. I shall not let myself think about it again.

The rest of the trip to London was spent in a conversation with Mr. Holmes about maths equations and ciphers (cryptology has always been a pet interest of mine, and Mr. Holmes's knowledge was extensive; I admit I became quite animated at times. It has been so long since I've had good conversation, and I don't think I've met anyone who shares my interest in this matter!) And arithmetic has always been my favorite subject to teach, and it is rare to find others who share the enjoyment of a problem well-solved. Dr. Watson seemed amused by this, and I think he was listening to us even after he had hidden behind a newspaper. In any case, the talk made me feel much better, and by the end of our journey I found myself looking forward to meeting Mrs. Watson more than I was apprehensive of it.

Mrs. Watson is a lovely woman, and worthy of the kind doctor. She made me feel at home at once, and had me settled in front of the fire with a piping cup of tea and a plate of warm, buttery scones before I could blink. Mr. Holmes was polite to her, but excused himself from the house quickly, and I am under the impression that the domestic side of Dr. Watson's life is one he does not feel comfortable with.

I, however, am very much glad that my pride did not overcome my need. I think I shall enjoy staying with the Watsons very much.

 _4 April, 1890_

I went to see Miss Stoper again today. I shall not bore you with those details.

Mrs. Watson—Mary—has taken the time to become acquainted with me. She is a pretty woman, petite and blonde, and though at first I felt awkward, as it has been so long since I've had a real friend, she has quickly put me at ease. I've asked her to call me Violet, and how sweet it is to hear my Christian name again! I've been known as "Miss Hunter" for so long I'd nearly forgotten what my name sounds like said aloud.

We talked of many subjects, including how she met her husband (Dr. Watson recently published a book titled The Sign of Four, which details the case that brought them together. I shall try to get a copy of it.) and his relationship with Mr. Holmes.

"I encourage John to spend time with him," Mary told me. "It means so much to the both of them, and they need each other."

I understood. Some might think their friendship is odd, but I personally do not think I have ever seen two friends more suited. Their differences are Providential; relationships are meant to change and grow people for the better, which would never happen if the two of them were too similar.

"Do you mind?" I asked, hoping I was not overstepping my bounds with the question.

Mary understood my caution, and smiled. "No. I love John too much to begrudge the small spans of time he spends elsewhere. Besides," she added, a little impishly, "After a few days running around the muck and mud of London's underbelly with Mr. Holmes, he seems to appreciate coming home to his wife even more than usual."

We both laughed, and I am under the distinct impression we have begun to forge a true friendship.

 _7 April, 1890_

This is my fourth day at the Watsons; I fear overstaying my welcome and the only consolation I have is that Mary does seem to truly enjoy my company. I certainly enjoy hers, and the doctor's presence is agreeable as well. They are very good to me, and I am grateful.

 _8 April 1890_

On my way back from Miss Stoper's today I was accosted by a young street urchin of perhaps eight years.

"Is you Miss 'unter?" he asked.

Immediately wary, I replied that this was indeed my name.

"I've a message for you from Mister 'olmes. 'e said's for you to come see 'im at Baker Street at four o'clock, if you kin make it."

I crinkled my brow. "I see. I shall be there." Mr. Holmes has not seen me at all since he delivered me to the Watson's doorstep, and I could not imagine his reason for requesting my presence now. Not that I dreaded the meeting; I would be glad to see him again. But I was puzzled, and as it was already half past three, I simply waited in the park until the allotted time.

The kind landlady opened the door, and I was led into the same room that I was shown to last time. (Has it only been three weeks? It feels like a lifetime ago.) The only difference was that Dr. Watson was not present.

Mr. Holmes stood when I entered. "Miss Hunter," he greeted. "I hope you are well?"

"I am very fine, Mr. Holmes," I answered. "Dr. Watson and his wife have been the most gracious of hosts, despite the fact that my stay has extended a bit longer than was intended."

"And have you found situation?" he asked, as we both sat down.

"I'm afraid not. But I am sure something will come up."

"I have something to show you." He handed me a letter. "Tell me what you think of it."

My curiosity piqued, I took the opened letter, which was addressed to "M. Holmes." I was amazed at its contents.

"A school?" I asked in disbelief. "I've been, that is, I've been recommended as headmistress of a girls' school?" My heart lifted, despite my best efforts to tell myself to be sensible and not get too excited.

"Indeed," Mr. Holmes said, smiling at my astonishment. "Highly exclusive, I believe, filled with several daughters of international businessmen and politicians."

The pay was even better than Mr. Rucastle's offering, and the position far more prestigious. I looked at the letter. "M. Holmes…?" I inquired.

"My brother." Mr. Holmes answered. "Mycroft. He holds a somewhat…influential position and managed to secure you the situation."

"But why?" I narrowed my eyes—not in distrust, exactly, but speculation.

"I will not deny, Miss Hunter, that I have been impressed with your quick thinking and impeccable conduct. I do not give out praise lightly, but you seem to be blessed with a rationale far above the usual sensibilities of your sex. And with your familiarity with cryptology intrigued me."

I was too distracted by his mention of my hobby to take much offense at his insult to the rest of the feminine population. "Cryptology?"

"The position at the school involves certain activities slightly more unusual that that of a simple headmistress." He then went on to detail some "duties" that made my heart thrill.

"Our government is in a precarious situation as always, Miss Hunter. My brother and I both agree that your cooperation would be most helpful to our nation."

"For queen and country," I said, smiling. "I accept."

We spoke for perhaps a half hour more, mostly about Mycroft Holmes's letter and the school.

"I assume you do not wish it known that you had anything to do with my appointment as the headmistress of the academy?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Yes, I would thank you not to mention it."

"I assumed so when I saw that Dr. Watson was not here. The street urchin, of course, was also highly irregular."

I do not know why Mr. Holmes dissolved into laughter at this statement, but the sight of him doing so was strangely gratifying, and I laughed with him.

I've packed my things. I leave London tomorrow, and Mary and I have promised to correspond. My leaving is bittersweet, for I shall miss her, and I doubt I will see Mr. Holmes again. However, I shall never forget this strange episode in my life, and the part he played in it.

* * *

 _Never see him again? Are you sure….? Heehee. You thought that was the end, didn't you? Actually it is, for this story. But I have quite a few ideas running around my head for a sequel. It will not be written through journal entries (although I'll probably stick with first person perspective for it, as it's very fitting for any writing that's Sherlock-Holmes-related) and won't be based on any ACD cases. It should "fit" into the canon, though. Not *quite* sure when I'll be able to get around to it, since school is starting and I usually like to write a first draft of the first couple of chapters for before I post anything. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this version of one of my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories! Thanks for reading! God Bless ~_


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